


Inevitable Collision

by naein



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Getting Together, H/D Erised 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Queer Themes, Sexuality Crisis, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-12-28 14:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21138245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naein/pseuds/naein
Summary: It was difficult to pretend everything was the same as before the war thundered over them, forcing their childhood out of their hands a little too early. The war might be over now, but for Draco Malfoy, the world had lost its colour, his existence diminished into a dull grey hue... until he stumbles upon Harry Potter. Potter is danger, blood pumping fast through Draco's veins, technicolour explosions of emotion, making Draco feelalive—and Draco can’t help but crave more.





	Inevitable Collision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).

> I was so happy to be assigned to you, Writ for the Erised fest, especially after realising how many tropes and themes we share! I’m sorry that I didn’t explore any of your prompts, but the line “as they see new places they make unexpected discoveries about one another along the way” got me started on another idea and I truly hope I managed to cover at least some of your likes in this fic! Prepare for a ride—but at least there’s a hopeful ending awaiting!
> 
> I find myself incapable of finding words good enough to express my gratitude towards my hardworking beta (who really, is an alpha and beta in one) G. I’ve never before received such a thorough beta work, thank you for your suggestions and corrections—without whom this fic would still be a complete mess! I also want to thank the mods of Erised for continuing to arrange this fest and being so kind, helpful and patient with all my many questions!

It had to do with the sound, the sound of a bone breaking; it was the smell, the smell of fresh rain hitting asphalt, the relief of the sky opening itself up above their heads, their clothes sticking to sweaty skin; it was the colour that stained the face underneath his knuckles, painting it a dark red; it was their movements, the steps they took around each other, the collision of their bodies; it was the physical feeling of his heart beating: strong, persistent, _alive_, so very, very alive.

Draco Malfoy backed up, a smirk playing on his lips—he couldn't help it, it felt good. Victory always felt good.

The man before him was on his knees, breath coming hard and fast, steaming through the chilly air. He was not much to look at, not at this particular moment at least, not with his oversized Muggle T-shirt hanging loosely around him, almost exposing a shoulder. His usual disarray of black curls were now glued to his forehead, covering the scar Draco knew was hiding underneath. They couldn't hide the crooked slant of his freshly broken nose though, Draco thought, feeling smug.

Then Draco felt the Earth shift, disappearing from underneath his feet. If it wasn't for the inevitable crash on the rough ground he could almost have sworn he was flying. It had been so long since he had last been on a broom, but this somehow felt better, raw and real; he felt free. It only lasted for a short moment, until the pain made itself known. It spread out through his limbs, and a weight pressed insistently at his chest, keeping him down.

Draco leaned back on his elbows, looking up into green eyes as wild as the most vast and unforgiving forest. For a moment he wondered if he was to get lost in them, never to find his way out again.

Honestly, Draco wasn't completely sure how he had found himself in this situation. He had simply been wandering down the pavement on his way home to an empty flat, minding his own business—until he had stumbled upon Harry bloody Potter.

Draco hadn't seen him since the war had ended. Potter never came back to Hogwarts for the _obligatory_ eighth year like the rest of them had—neither had his weasel friend, for that matter. But all the rest of them were there, under the same roof they had all grown up under, where they'd eaten and laughed, fooled around and made friends and enemies, where they'd made imperative decisions at far too young an age. Draco had gone back for that awful year after the war, his shattered pieces laid out for everyone to see, to judge, to despise. He had felt humiliated at best. At worst, the war had continued to play out inside his mind's eye. It had been hard on them, all of them really, and eighth year had passed impossibly slowly—at least for _them_, the losing party.

It wasn't that he thought the others were wrong per se, only, they never seemed to want him to forget. Not that he'd allow himself to forget either.

Perhaps that was why he had stopped in his tracks while the rain fell over him, slowly drenching him to his very bones, as he studied the almost unidentifiable figure of Harry Potter stumbling on the other side of the road—practically dragging his feet after him as he walked, somehow, forward.

Draco had told himself he just wanted to know what Potter had been doing all that year, all that time when he had been absent, vanished from the world. Not momentarily, waveringly like one did within a Vanishing Cabinet, but solidly, permanently gone from the world.

Perhaps it was the way Potter had held himself as he walked through the rain, the slumped posture, that caused rage to blare through Draco's insides. How was it that the Golden Boy, the Saviour of the entire wizarding world, Harry Potter himself, was allowed to disappear, avoid the aftermath of _war_, and yet look as if his favourite team had lost the World Cup? Scratch that, he'd appeared even worse than that, and not only because the downpour made him resemble a lost stray, ragged around the edges. He seemed… Draco didn't even know how to define it. He didn't look like Harry Potter, and it didn't suit him.

Perhaps _that_ was the reason Draco had walked straight up to Potter instead of ignoring him completely. Draco had had so much he had wanted to say to Potter, wanted to ask him, tell him. Draco wanted to yell, to scream the injustice of it all in Potter's face. But as he came face-to-face with the boy in question, all the words he had wanted to say were lost to him, as if they had Disapparated away, leaving only pure rage inside of him.

That had to be the reason words were not what Draco had thrown into Potter's face. Instead it was his fist, square into Potter's chest.

And so Draco Malfoy had found himself in a fistfight with Harry blasted Potter in the rain, as if they were still just children, schoolboys fighting over nonsense. But they weren't boys anymore, Potter's frame all too square, all too _hard_, for a boy's anatomy. They were grown men now, fists raised and hitting each other unapologetically. _Much like the rain_, Draco thought.

It was satisfying in a way he hadn't thought something like this would be. Had he been asked prior to the encounter, he'd have said that no physical fight could ever feel better than beating his opponents with mastered control, ingenious skill, and efficient spells. Never would he have thought it would make him feel this good, this blisteringly alive—powerful even—to punch his way to success.

Draco felt like he could do this forever, but he knew that he couldn't. His body was protesting with every move he made, his back pressed onto the hard ground beneath. Already he was in need of a few spells to help his body heal, and the same went for Potter. Draco wondered which of them looked the worst. He knew he himself had a broken lip. It felt hot and swollen, throbbing under his fingertips when he touched it.

"I think I could get used to this."

That was somehow the last thing Draco would expect Potter to say after all that… all that _beating_, but Draco was even more surprised when he heard his own voice reply, "Yeah, me too."

Their eyes met. Draco couldn't read the expression on Potter's face. For a moment, it looked as if the clouds that had seemed so persistent around Potter had finally cleared, leaving him almost airy and childlike, allowing Draco to catch a glimpse of the boy he had seen so many times under the Hogwarts enchanted ceiling.

"That was…" Potter trailed off.

"Yeah…" was all Draco could reply.

Never before had he felt this inarticulate. He blamed it on the fight, on being out of breath, on Potter punching all his words out of his mouth.

_I've not felt this alive in years_, was what he wanted to say.

"We could…" Draco started, unsure where he was going with this. Potter's gaze was on him, animated, a kid waiting for their first ride on a broom.

What was Draco even going to say? It wasn't as if he could suggest they meet up to have a go at each other every time rain spilled from the sky.

"I know a place," Potter said, and perhaps Draco knew it wasn't a good idea, but right then it didn't matter. The only thing on his mind was the constant beating of his heart, reassuring in a way he hadn't experienced in a very long time.

"Alright, take me there."

﹄ *** ﹃

A few Cleaning Charms and a couple of _Episkeys_ later, and Draco continued to find himself in situations that would have seemed impossible only moments earlier.

Draco Malfoy had never really been in a place like this before.

Colours shifted around him and sound seemed to vibrate its way through his very skin. It was too loud, with people shouting and music blasting at an almost deafening volume. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't controlled, there was no adhering to proper decorum or etiquette. Instead it was all a mess of sweaty, moving people. Was it always like this in Muggle London?

He thought of raising the question to Potter, but before he could, he was handed a glass of an unknown liquor.

"What's this?" he asked, not exactly certain if he meant the drink or the location.

"Just drink it," Potter said, swallowing the liquid in his own glass in one gulp.

Draco watched Potter's Adam's apple move as he swallowed before quickly averting his eyes. The way Potter inhaled his liquor was everything Draco's parents had taught him not to do. Alcohol was to be treated delicately, and to be chosen deliberately and carefully for the occasion, depending on cuisine and company.

Now, he was surrounded by people who simply downed it all in one go.

Draco soon became aware of the fact that he was very much not dressed for the occasion, and honestly, neither was Potter; but where Potter's clothes hung too loosely on him, Draco's were too inflexible, clinging stiffly to his body. Potter was clad in a simple Muggle T-shirt (Draco had learnt one or two things about Muggles, he took pride in that—he could change too), and baggy trousers that, though they were the wrong size, somehow appeared as if they were made to look that way. In comparison Draco was still properly dressed, contrasting the people around them, whose clothes gripped their bodies snuggly—almost outrageously so—and exposed far too much bare skin for such a public location, in Draco's opinion.

"Come on," Potter said as he gestured for them to move towards a particularly crowded area. Bodies moved along with the beat, seemingly with no plan or design. "Just dance," Potter yelled over the noise.

_Dance?_ Draco thought, aghast as he glanced at the people around them. A lady nearby was pressing her body in between two men, making movements that had Draco feeling as if he was watching something extremely private. Another cluster nearby were moving in a way that could generously be described as eccentric, shaking body parts and flailing their arms in the air. That wasn't dancing, that was… merely movement, at best.

It didn't stop Potter though, whose body was also moving, his limbs only just following. Did he have any sense for music? Draco wasn't sure. _Perhaps it doesn't matter_, he thought as he uncertainly tried to find a way to move that wouldn't disturb any neighbours and wouldn't be too offbeat.

Potter spun around. He seemed drunk—or well, drunker than before (if Draco was honest with himself, he wasn't sure if Potter had been sober this evening at all), his body alarmingly close to Draco's as he moved in waves to the music, eyes heavy-lidded. His T-shirt hung casually on his frame; it was about two sizes too big for him (had Potter ever worn well-fitting clothes?), leaving a long stretch of skin around the loose collar available for any prying eyes, especially with his neck arching to the turns of the music. Draco wasn't staring, and he definitely didn't care what Potter looked like. Draco was simply observant. He had never danced in this fashion before and he needed to learn how to fit in with the crowd. That, he told himself, was the reason for his trying to move together with Potter, for fitting his body behind Potter's.

It was an odd sensation.

Potter turned his head, only in this position it meant that Draco was faced with long dark eyelashes and the green foliage of his eyes. Potter's lips were slightly parted, his breath huffing on Draco's face, and that should have been disgusting, but it wasn't. Instead, it left Draco astounded, holding his breath, seeking for purchase along Potter's hips to prolong the moment.

Potter's eyelashes batted as he blinked lazily, gaze lifting to meet Draco's. Draco hadn't noticed when they had stopped dancing. All of the people surrounding them turned to debris, nothing more than background noise as Potter leaned back, looking over his shoulder at Draco, hovering less than an inch away from his face.

"May I?" he asked, and Draco gave the slightest of nods, not sure what he was even agreeing to.

"Words," Potter slurred in reply.

"Yes," Draco breathed, and then Potter's lips were pressing against his.

It wasn't the way Draco had thought it would be, kissing someone. He had been raised by parents who rarely displayed any kind of physical affection. It was only within the secure walls of the Manor that Mother's hand would rest for a few seconds on Father's knuckles—but never more than that. A faint touch, easily forgotten in the second that followed.

Physical touch was rare to come by for Draco, and when it happened it was brief, the sweet aftertaste fading as quickly as Sherbet Lemon on his tongue.

This, however, wasn't sweet. It wasn't pretty—but when had anything ever been pretty when it came to him and Harry Potter? He smelled of booze and sweat, sticky and warm, and there was an urgency to his movements, almost desperate. Draco could feel it in the tenacious grip Potter had on Draco's upper arm to steady himself, and in the fiery touch of Potter's tongue as he ran it across Draco's closed lips. Draco wanted to say something, explain how they shouldn't be doing this here, not with all these people around them, perhaps even watching—but then, neither of them were anyone here, and everyone else seemed so preoccupied with their own small worlds. Perhaps this was exactly the right place for it, the only place it could work.

Potter's hand was tangled in Draco's hair, tugging him closer as he turned to face him better, lining up their bodies in a way that felt good, natural, as Potter pressed his thigh between Draco's.

Draco's head was spinning again, much like it had earlier that evening. His skin was ablaze, tingling from the sensation of having a tongue ask for permission, from having someone else's hands all over him, touching him in ways he'd never dared to dream of. They were just bodies set on fire; here they were no one in particular, they weren't Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Perhaps that was why Draco let it happen, why he somehow agreed to let it happen, why he _wanted_ it to happen.

Draco parted his lips as Potter's tongue demanded more, and Draco gave him what he wanted, granted him permission with an embarrassing sigh. Draco didn't have enough experience to know what made for a good kisser, but he was pretty sure Potter was excellent at it. Draco liked the way Potter's tongue slid against his, the way Potter searched his mouth with heated licks.

They parted for air, harsh intakes to fill their lungs, and this was just like fistfighting. It made Draco just as out of breath, made him feel just as alive, with an insatiable craving for more.  
Potter's eyes were blurry, unfocused as he met Draco's gaze, and Draco felt drunk in all sorts of ways. Drunk on _life_ for the first time in years.

Draco leaned back in, hovering over Potter as he let out breathy pants against golden skin.  
That's when he felt the fall, not his own, but Potter's.

It happened quickly and suddenly. The body that had seemed to gain strength during the evening was now giving way underneath him, stumbling as Potter's hand pressed a bit too rough on Draco's arm.

"Potter?" he asked.

"If he's going to be sick, please take him out of here," someone said to him.

It was hard work, trying to steady Potter enough to get out of the crowded space, and when they finally got out into the rain again, Potter was only half conscious. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, along with the control of his body. Draco was almost carrying him.

"Can you stand?"

Potter gave a vague nod, but when Draco tried to let go of him he almost collapsed on the paving stones. _Clearly not_, Draco thought.

He wanted to suggest that Potter Apparate home, but knowing the risks of Apparating with alcohol in the system, it didn't seem like such a good idea, especially since Potter looked as if he couldn't make out the difference between up and down.

"What's your address?" Draco tried.

He should have known he wouldn't be getting any more words out of Potter that evening.  
A part of Draco wished he could leave him there in the rain and just forget about the whole incident and move on. Continue his days as if nothing had happened. Forget about Potter, and go back to real life and the things that mattered, to looking for jobs that wouldn't hire him.

He wasn't the only one struggling in that respect. All of the Slytherins in Draco's year had had a rough time finding employment or being accepted onto the programmes they wanted to enroll in, even if their grades were more than sufficient. It hadn't mattered that they were the ones that had studied the hardest, worked the most to achieve even better scores than their classmates from other houses. In the end most of them were left without access to any further education or decent jobs. It was like that for Greg, and it was the same for Pansy, Theo, Daphne, Blaise—the list went on. Whether they wanted it or not, whether they had stronger ambitions than all the others put together—they weren't allowed. In some kind of unspoken rule they weren't permitted to breathe the same air as the rest of them.

The rest of the wizarding world didn't care what happened to Draco, so why should he care about what happened to their precious Saviour?

In the end, Draco didn't leave Potter in the rain; instead he Side-Alonged him. The world turned in on itself, swirling and spinning until finally, his vision cleared.

Nausea hit him like a Bludger to the stomach and Draco fought hard not to vomit in the middle of his own hallway. _This is why you don't over-consume alcoholic beverages like some sort of savage_, Draco thought to himself. Potter, however, seemed completely unaffected by the whole affair. Instead, he truly did collapse on the floor this time, as Draco's hold had loosened on arrival.

"Hey," Draco said as he tried to get Potter off the floor. He didn't budge, and with a sigh, Draco decided on using spells for the work instead.

After a few Drying Charms, a couple more Cleaning Spells and a Levitation Charm to move Potter's now unconscious form to the single sofa in Draco's rather modest sitting room, Draco was finally able to put himself to bed and drift off to sleep.

﹄ *** ﹃

The dawn was harsher than usual, the light unforgiving as it streamed in through the window and hit Draco's still-closed eyelids, making him see red as he woke.

Draco yawned and stretched on his bed. His head pounded when he moved, aching at his temples and between his eyes. And then memories from yesterday streamed over him, drenching him like the rain that fell over London only a few hours prior; a pounding heart, flashing lights, bodies pressed too tightly together and lips on Draco's.

Draco touched his bottom lip with his finger as he thought back on it, the feeling of the kiss. It was odd, in afterthought. He had liked it. _Merlin, he had liked it_, and it had happened in the middle of a Muggle club.

With Harry Potter.

His lips and tongue pressed against Draco's, Potter's thigh dangerously close to Draco's crotch.

Draco shivered, and not because the morning was still cold.

It was wrong. Even though so much about the kiss had _felt_ right, it was wrong. It was all sorts of wrong.

Sober, and looking back at it now, Draco felt out of place. Draco knew intimacy was only shared in marriage. Anything else was inappropriate and unnecessary. There was no use in showing physical affection unless it was leading to _something_—unless it had fruitful consequences that would leave the couple with better financial prospects, create new alliances and bestow wealth and inheritance to their descendants. Not to mention, it was only possible to get an heir if the intimacy was shared between opposite sexes, and Harry Potter was very much not a potential future spouse he could ever introduce to his parents. Draco felt disgusted with himself. He felt dirty, and that was not only because he was still wearing yesterday's clothes and smelling of an unpleasant infusion of dried sweat and alcohol; but to have sunk so low as to give in to the most basic of desires, and with a _man_.

Draco now knew what it was like to kiss Harry Potter, to card his fingers through Potter's hair and caress his neck under colourful disco lighting, surrounded by musk and masculinity. Draco didn't know what to do with that information. It made his ears hot just thinking about it. He had kissed a man, and honestly, Draco didn't know how to feel about that either. He had never even seen two men kissing before, and had only ever heard a few hostile accusations leaving his father's lips if ever the mention of similar occurrences had somehow surfaced. Surely it wasn't natural?

He remembered Father telling him about Muggles, giving one of his extensive speeches over the dinner table, this one about their repulsive mating habits and how, in the worst cases, they might even try to infiltrate the wizarding world by copulating with pure-bloods, such as himself. Draco was to watch out for them, the Muggle-borns, and the half-bloods that were the said offspring of such unfortunate circumstances. He was not to be manipulated by them. He'd stay far away from them, and Draco had nodded upon hearing it, knowing his family was more powerful than the rest of them, that he was part of an elite group that was worth saving, preserving. The Malfoys were important; their family line had remained strong, _pure_, and he was to see that it would stay that way.

It wasn't only an unspoken agreement, but a promise. Draco remembered Mother clutching his hand in hers, smiling proudly at him and Father, assuring him that Draco was indeed to take over the family estate someday. Draco had had his whole future planned out right in front of him: go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, find himself a suitable pure-blood witch at an early age, take over the family wealth and assume responsibility in whatever was necessary to uphold a similar influence in the Ministry of Magic like his father, and his before him. It wasn't negotiable. It was a promise. A promise of something big, something _meaningful_, and Draco had looked forward to that. All his life.

But then, the Second Wizarding War was upon them and Draco had been assigned a task that proved itself impossible. He still wondered sometimes if he could have done it. Back then he had told himself that he would have, if only Severus hadn't interrupted, if only he'd been given more time, _if only_. Draco often contemplated what would have happened if he had been the one to cast the curse instead. Would things be different? Would he have been the one to end up dead instead of Severus? Would he have died on the wrong side of the war, or would he have died a hero? Would He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named still be alive? Which side would have won? Would Harry Potter have triumphed anyway—Draco's act only a side-track in a larger picture? Would Potter still have disappeared for all of eighth year, would they still have stumbled upon each other, would Potter have kissed him then, if Draco had been the murderer of the only father figure Potter had had left?

Draco closed his eyes again, wishing to be taken by sleep once more, drifting off and away, perhaps to never get back to the surface again.

Harry Potter, with his stupid scar, ugly mop of hair and idiot glasses.

Harry Potter, whom he'd taken _home_ with him, to Draco's own flat.

Draco had moved out some time ago, unable to bear seeing the empty walls of Malfoy Manor a minute longer. He hated it there, the memories of the smell and the colour of blood staining the walls as the half-man and his snake slithered themselves around, taking over his home.

So Draco had got himself a flat. It wasn't much. It was already cramped, and not due to overflowing belongings stacked on top of each other—no, they had been forced to sell most of their personal possessions and family heritage to simply afford the sentence that had almost obliterated them to nothing. Instead the flat was cramped simply by his few necessary movables taking up almost all of its capacity, leaving only slivers of unfurnished space for him to zigzag around.

It wasn't much, but he didn't need much anymore. It wasn't the Malfoy Manor—so it was more of a home than he'd had in a very long time.

Draco stuck his head out from his bedroom, but the sofa which he'd left Potter sprawled upon was disturbingly deserted.

"Potter?" Draco called, voice hoarse and wavering, "Hello?" But there was no reply, and after a quick search Draco could undoubtedly establish that Harry Potter was no longer in his flat.

Draco was alone.

It was as if yesterday had never happened.

﹄ *** ﹃

It was difficult to pretend it didn't happen—yet, at the same time, it seemed the most plausible explanation. Potter was nowhere to be found, and that night when Draco had stumbled upon him almost felt like something from a dream, a bit out of reach, like words forming on the tip of his tongue, only to dissipate into thin air right before he had a chance to finally wrap his mind around them.

As the days passed, Draco found it all too easy to wonder if it had occurred at all. That was, until the rain was upon them again. Which at this time of year, was fairly frequent. The autumn was harsh and unyielding, not as compliant as it sometimes could be, instead lashing its tongue in sharp whiplashes against Draco's skin, ruffling his hair and destroying whatever spellwork Draco had put on his clothes only after a few minutes outside. It even managed to shift his Shielding Charm, letting the heavy droplets through every now and then, slowly but surely beginning the torturous drowning process.

Draco had been on his way home, a paper carton in his hands. He had taken to the habit of takeaway just after he'd moved out of the Manor, not really knowing how to cook for himself without any assistance and not compelled to figure it out.

The figure standing outside Draco's door was almost invisible, practically fusing with the dark painted wood as they sat crouched on the doorsteps.

Draco had tried to avoid looking at the individual all too closely, afraid it was someone who'd be out to get back at him—they did that, it had happened every so often; a man chasing him down an alley, beating him up, making him _pay_ for all his many mistakes, sometimes for mistakes he'd not even been responsible for.

In the end, he wasn't so wrong it seemed, as the person more or less flew upon him, making Draco drop both his carton of food and his charm against the slapping rain.

The punch wasn't expected, but this time, not unwelcome, either, as Draco focused on the face of his aggressor.

Potter.

He should have guessed as much. Of course, now the man would try and get back at him, thinking Draco had taken him home to drug him, kidnap him, perhaps even kill him. Draco had taken Potter home because he couldn't have left him in the street, right? What an ungrateful bastard.

Draco jammed his fist into Potter's side—there was not much else he could do, lying down on his back with Potter's body weighing him down. He tried to kick with his legs, but couldn't get any purchase as Potter wrapped his legs around his, forcing him in place.

Draco awaited the inevitable punch, perhaps a slap over his cheekbone, a broken nose much like the one he'd given Potter not once but twice before in his life.

Nothing came.

Instead Potter only panted, hovering above him, their breath mingling in the steamy air.

It was an odd thing, to be sober and see Potter this up close.

His eyes were an endless sea of green, emeralds and leaves dancing around each other. They held an intriguing mix of the serenity of the deepest of forests and the roiling surface of the stormiest of nights.

Draco swallowed. He could get lost in those eyes.

Draco had felt lost for all of his worst years. He didn't want to get lost again.

"You ruined my dinner," Draco said, voice more even than he'd thought he would manage.

"Sorry," Potter replied, but he didn't move, nor did he look over his shoulder to check on the discarded carton.

Draco could smell the Chinese even now; its contents were probably all over the paving stones, Heating Charm completely forgotten and now unnecessary. Draco wondered if Potter truly felt sorry at all.

"Have a drink with me," Potter said, making Draco focus on the face before him again.

Potter's scar was visible from this angle where he hovered above him, hair falling out of his eyes and instead tickling Draco's forehead.

"Why?"

"It's just one drink, it won't matter."

One drink.

Draco didn't know what Potter wanted, but one drink—he could do with one drink.

"Okay," he said and for a short moment he felt as though Potter hadn't really expected him to agree so easily.

"Okay," Potter repeated back at him, blinking and seeming to finally realise the position they were in, before awkwardly crawling off of him, "One drink."

Potter didn't keep his word. One drink went down after the other whilst music blazed through the Muggle Wireless or whatever it was, loud but unreasonably reassuring in a way as the beat vibrated through Draco's whole body, physical and constant, like a heartbeat, a body pressed close, a reminder of blood pumping through his veins, air flowing in and out of his lungs; of being alive.

The alcohol went straight through him, and Draco excused himself to the loo. The air grew thicker as he got closer to the restrooms, palpable and sharp in a way that was almost nauseating. The walls were painted in Prussian Blue, almost black to the eye, only a slight shimmer of blue where the light pulsed against the paint.

After taking a quick piss in the booth that looked the cleanest, Draco looked at his reflection as he washed the soap from his hands.

He was once again overdressed for the occasion. Draco didn't know how to dress for these Muggle clubs, but his outfit clearly wasn't it. Even though he couldn't afford the calibre of clothes he once had access to, he still made an effort to wear quality silk shirts, most often paired with fitted trousers in a shade—like the pair he wore today— of inky black. It was simple, but at least it was acceptable, proper. Everyone here wore clothes cut either too loosely or too tightly, ill fitting.

Draco made his way out of the loo, looking for Potter through the dimly lit room, packed with too many moving bodies. It was difficult to make out anyone in this place, and as Draco made his way to where he'd last seen Potter, he realised Potter was nowhere to be found.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. Potter wouldn't have left, not without telling him—or would he? Perhaps this had been Potter's plan all along, take him somewhere Muggle and leave him to manage on his own. Perhaps Potter thought it'd be funny, that Draco wouldn't be able to handle it alone—well, he could.

Draco moved towards the dance floor again, this time, with intent. He'd show Potter; he didn't need him to feel alive. Perhaps this was all he needed, to get out of his isolated flat and inside a room overflowing with roaring music and rowdy people.

Draco danced, swung his hips to the music and held his arms over his head like he'd seen others do the last time Potter had dragged him to a club. He could do this, no problem, and he could do it well.

When he felt the body of someone closing up on him from behind, Draco tensed, but he didn't stop moving. He'd decided he could do this, hadn't he?

Draco turned around, coming face-to-face with a man he had never seen before, much like everyone else in the room. Here, they were all nobodies, just like him. He was no one, no one in particular.

Draco had always wanted to be someone as a child. He had aimed for the top, wanting to be best in class, to surpass all of the idiot Gryffindors, to best Harry Potter. But then war had come, changing everything, leaving no stone unturned. He had felt out of place and out of control.

After the war Draco had been someone, and that someone was not someone he wanted to be. He was the first person people noticed, even when he was standing in the corner of a shop, the person people would turn their heads to and their noses up at when he entered a room. Had it been under different circumstances, it might have been everything Draco had ever dreamed of achieving. Instead he felt wrong. He wanted out. He wanted to be nobody, no one in particular.

The stranger closed the space between them, and as the man put a hand on Draco's back to keep him close, Draco didn't feel like no one in particular any longer. It felt wrong.

"Take your hand off me," he said, trying to give the stranger a gentle push to let him know he'd overstepped Draco's boundaries.

The stranger didn't seem to care.

"You sure?"

"Yes," Draco replied, pushing back the panic trying to escape out through his veins.

"He said no," another voice said.

Draco turned his head to see a familiar mop of hair and unfashionable glasses.

He felt Potter's hand removing the stranger's hold on his back, off, and away.

"He's with me," Potter said, his voice stern and serious.

Draco watched with anxious eyes as the stranger huffed at them, apparently admitting defeat and finally taking off into the crowd.

"I'm not," Draco said, because there was nothing else he _could_ say.

"What?"

"With you."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," Potter repeated as if it was that simple.

﹄ *** ﹃

Draco learned that _one drink_ was never just one drink when it came to Potter. He learned that Potter liked to go clubbing with him, and it was possible that Potter liked watching Draco dance more than Potter enjoyed dancing himself. He was always standing a few feet away, always watching him, intent eyes searching, looking for something. Draco didn't know if he possessed whatever it was that Potter was looking for.

Potter never asked Draco how things were going, never asked if he had gone back for the obligatory eighth year at Hogwarts. He never asked why Draco had so much time on his hands, why he was always available whenever Potter decided to pop by. He never asked—and perhaps that was because he already knew the answers, but he never asked.

He didn't question Draco, just showed up at Draco's doorstep, taking him to a new Muggle pub somewhere, some club around the corner, far away from the prying eyes of the wizarding world, to a world where anyone could sneak in and become one with the crowd. Become no one in particular under flashing neon lights while downing sticky drinks. A slip in the universe from the unbearable reality waiting at sunrise.

Potter never asked, and perhaps that was why Draco didn't ask either—not Potter, not himself. Instead, he allowed himself to be dragged around London into unfamiliar places smelling of sweat and musk. Everything he had never before even dreamed of associating with himself. Fleeting moments that held no meaning other than temporary escape, an ephemeral moment of feeling utterly and shamelessly alive.

"Just one drink," is all Potter had to say, "It won't kill us," and perhaps that was why Draco always agreed to go with him.

﹄ *** ﹃

The next irregular occurrence with Potter happened a few weeks later. The knock came on Draco's door, and this time he was prepared, almost properly clad for the occasion for the first time since he'd stumbled upon Potter's shadowed figure that rainy night, seemingly ages ago.

"Fly with me," Potter said, and Draco found he was at a loss for words.

"What?" he managed after a moment—not exactly knowing what he wanted to say but it was better than staying quiet, flabbergasted at the request.

"Fly with me," Potter repeated.

"It's not that simple," Draco replied, not elaborating on the topic.

"It could be."

"I've not flown since Hogwarts," Draco admitted.

"Neither have I," Potter replied matter of factly.

"I don't have a broom anymore."

Draco watched with wary eyes as Potter stepped aside, leaning forward and behind Draco's door, reaching for something he had apparently placed there before knocking. When he turned his attention back to Draco again he held two broomsticks in each hand. Draco could read the labels easily: _Firebolt Supreme_.

Potter pressed one of the brooms hard into Draco's chest, making him stumble backwards, bracing himself with his left foot to keep from losing his balance.

"You can't," Draco began, not knowing what more to say.

Firebolt Supreme. It was far superior to the first Firebolt broom, and finer still than Draco's old Nimbus 2001, which he hadn't ever replaced. He had contemplated getting a Firebolt in fifth year, but then war was inevitable and the stress had him quitting Quidditch, never to pick it up again.

He missed it, often, but after sixth year he had never once thought of flying again, nor owning a new broom, and when he moved out he had given away or sold everything that wasn't so worn out that it had to be simply thrown out, including his broomstick. The only thing he could remember clearly about Quidditch and flying was Potter winning, match after match, over and over again.

It felt odd, Potter pushing the Firebolt Supreme onto him. It almost resembled the way he himself had presented Potter his hand in first year on the train, suspension hanging in the air, and the disappointment of being turned down. His first proper (and not to mention public) meeting with the great Harry Potter, and Potter had turned him down.

"Take it."

Draco raised his hands, letting his fingers stroke the wood underneath, curling around the handle.

"Come on," Potter said, holding out his hand to Draco, his eyes expectant.

For a short moment Draco wanted Potter to get a taste of what Draco had felt all those years ago, and shut the door in Potter's face—but then, Draco wasn't the same as he once was.

He took Potter's hand, an awkward mirror of the handshake they had never shared, and the world whirled around him, expanding and constricting.

When his vision cleared they were standing on a bare, empty field, the soil dry underneath his soles.

"Do you trust me?"

It seemed a tricky question, one that didn't have any right answer. Draco looked up, fighting to clear his mind as he focused on Potter with his hand still in Draco's, both of them awkwardly angled towards each other.

"Yes," Draco replied anyway, and with a shock, realised that it was true.

It seemed to startle Potter too, even though he had been the one to ask. He regained control over his expression soon enough, the small shock replaced by a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Draco didn't know what that meant. Potter could be mocking him—but it didn't seem that way. Draco didn't know.

Potter let go of his hand, and when Draco turned towards him, he was already in the sky, rising higher and higher with every second.

With a hesitant look at the broom in his hand, Draco swung his leg over it, his grasp trembling slightly, and pushed off the ground.

The feeling almost came as a surprise, even though he had done this so many times before, and could still remember the first time he had been given a broom by his parents. He knew what would happen next—adding foot after foot between himself and the ground—and yet this felt new, unique in a strange delicate way, ascending into the sky until he was level with Potter. Potter was still smiling at him, his hair made impossibly messier by the wind. It made him look younger.

They didn't share any more words, letting their speed and movements do the talking instead, and Draco found that perhaps this was why he hadn't minded dancing, either. They weren't so different after all, both activities making him feel alive, his pulse thrumming in his ears, louder with each sudden turn they took, Draco following Potter's directions. They sped up, racing quicker than Draco had ever remembered going, not sure who was in control: the brooms, or them.

The ground flew by them, dried field after dried field. Draco wondered when the season for wheat was. He had never cared for crops, but perhaps he should have. It felt important at that moment, knowing _when_, if ever, they would sprout up from the lifeless ground, light green, but ready to take on the world, stronger than ever.

It only took him a moment to realise that Potter had started to rise even higher up, competing against the atmosphere. Draco went after him, headfirst and without a single hesitation. They were higher than the clouds, pausing at a clearing in the air. The clouds floated in patches underneath them, emitting cold, and Draco regretted that he hadn't brought a coat with him. He should have—his dress shirt was a weak shield against the chilly air—but then, he hadn't really planned for anything other than a steamy club. Here, the air was too crisp, almost sharp as it cut its way down his windpipe, filling his lungs.

"I do too," Potter said from a few feet away. Draco tried to remember what they had last said to each other, but he didn't have time to come to a conclusion before Potter was falling.

It happened so quickly. In the blink of an eye Potter was tumbling down in free fall, having completely let go of his broomstick; they both descended down.

Draco didn't have time to do anything other than act on instinct, and before he had the thought firmly in his head, he was racing towards the ground too, trying to catch up with Potter.

It was terrifying, and yet Potter was almost beautiful as he fell, his black shock of hair blowing with the wind, the dark polo neck hugging his body tight as the wind pressed around him from all sides, his too-big trousers making him look like an odd dark pennant, whisking angrily in the wind. It all went in slow motion, the world sluggish, whilst at the same time going too quickly for Draco to process. But he had to, he simply had to catch up.

The wind was harsh against his face, whipping against his cheeks, playing with his hair in the most impolite manner. Draco's eyes were fixed on Potter, and even though they were both still several hundred yards above the ground, the horrifying impending consequences were quite literally hovering in the air with them.

When Draco had thought that he needed some kind of high to feel alive, this wasn't what he'd meant. While it was possible he'd never felt more alive ever in his life before, this was too much. Draco internally thanked Potter for having bought him one of the fastest brooms on the market that was also reliable; powerful, effective and consistent in its pull, yet sensitive to his magic.

His breathing came out as harsh as the air around him as he came closer and closer to Potter's falling form—he only needed to go a little faster, just a few feet more and he would be able to extend his arm and pull Potter back to safety.

When he closed up on him he saw Potter's expression, and if possible, that only riled Draco up even more. Potter was smiling, full-on smiling and it made Draco furious.

Perhaps it was the wrath within him that made him travel at an even faster speed, finally coming close enough to stretch out his arm towards the other man. Potter—the absolute tosser—didn't even try to get ahold of Draco. It wasn't enough that the Slytherins were still suffering the aftermath of the war, it wasn't enough that Draco always had to work harder than everyone else—even here, flying at what felt like the speed of light to catch Harry Potter, Draco had to do all the work, too.

Finally, _finally_, Draco was close enough to fly all the way into Potter, crashing his frame against him, while both of his arms let go of the broomstick to fold around Potter instead. Then the tumbling came—even though Draco had tried his best to decelerate, he hadn't quite realised how close to the ground they were already, and the force of braking made Draco lose his grip on the Firebolt as they both plunged towards the ground. Draco was able to turn them both around at the last minute so he came crashing down with his back into the dirt, Potter held tightly above him.

Draco was surprised he was still breathing, though his breath came even harder than before. For a minute, he had thought that this would be the end, not only for Potter, but for him, too. He thought he wouldn't be able to catch Potter in time, that even if he did, he would speed right into the earth and shatter every single bone in his body, too quickly to be able to heal.

Draco could feel Potter's rough breath against his neck, the air coming out rushed and hot on his sweating skin.

He should let go, Draco knew this much, he shouldn't keep clinging to Potter. Potter was safe now, after all, and he didn't need Draco's embrace any longer.

Still, it took a few minutes before Draco felt like he had a chance at forming any kind of coherent words. Though what finally came out wasn't exactly that eloquent either.

"For fuck's sake Potter!"

Potter laughed—he had the _nerve_ to laugh, and Draco pushed him away, making them both sit up even though he felt the tremble of his limbs, far more prominent than prior to the flying.

"Harry."

"What?" Draco's eyebrows drew together, the fury back.

"That's my name."

"Like I don't know!" Draco said, and it came out with such a force he wondered if Potter had got Draco's saliva on him.

It almost looked like it, the way he touched his own cheek, wiping at it, and then looking down at his hand as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Draco didn't see anything.

"It's common manners to use first names with people you spend time with."

"You have to earn it!"

"And I haven't?"

"No, you haven't! You haven't earned it. You walk around, taking whatever you want, as if you have the right to take, and it's fine—I get it!" Draco was screaming, and generally he would have thought that that was below him, finding composed discussions more than adequate—but not today. They were alone in this field, so what was the point of restraining himself anyway?

Potter just looked amused, and that made it all even worse. The fucking sod.

"Saint Potter, living as if the rest of the world's rules don't apply to you, as if you're above all that! You don't come back for eighth year when everyone else has to, you just consider that a right that is yours to take—and of course you get the permission to do so, you're the Saviour after all, saved the whole fucking world and you just claim your right over everything, you don't even care! You buy Firebolts and you break them as if it's nothing at all! You throw it away as if it's nothing to you!" _As if the rest of us don't have to work for it,_ was what he wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, he launched into the point that was, if possible, even more upsetting. "You let yourself fall, as if—" and Draco's breathing was jerky, the thudding of his heart in his chest almost erratic— "as if—" he tried again, but the words were failing him, as if the earlier stream that had previously seemed so abundant, had run itself dry.

"It was only a fall," came Potter's reply, and the wanker was still smiling. "It didn't kill me."

Draco felt hollow. The previous frenzy, the persistent urge to punch and destroy and damage—gone.

Potter never asked questions and neither did Draco, but perhaps that was where they had gone all wrong.

Just _one_, it was always just the one.

One drink. One fall.

One. It could be the first, or the last. But it was never just _one_. Every single time, they would start over; Potter knocking on his door, silently asking him for one drink—only to forget it once again, until next time, when he came knocking again, asking for the _one_. Draco had seen it happen, again and again, let it unfold—no questions asked, none of them did.

It finally hit him and Draco realised that he didn't, in fact, know Potter at all. He didn't know where he came from, not really; he knew his parents had died at He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's hands (but then, everyone knew that). He didn't know who his friends were outside of Granger and Weasley—or if they even kept in touch. He didn't know who Potter felt comfortable enough with to open up to, who kept his secrets safe. He didn't know where Potter had been all of eighth year, nor where he had been the two years that had passed since, or if he had any jobs. Draco didn't know what Potter spent his time doing—did he have hobbies? Did he still like Quidditch? He had said that he hadn't flown since Hogwarts—but what about watching a game? Did he have a favourite team?

Potter was a locked safe and Draco didn't know which key to use—if he was even in possession of the right one, if he could ever find it.

_It didn't kill me_, Potter had said. _One day it might_, Draco wanted to reply.  
Draco wanted to shut Potter up, he wanted to make him understand—and perhaps that was why he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips against Potter's like they had all those nights ago, then, under very different circumstances. It was so different, and yet it was exactly the same.

Then, they had been surrounded by people, invisible in the way they had merged with the crowd, a sharing of lips between nobodies under surreal and luminous lights, their bodies pressed close and moving along with the continual beat. In a way, it had seemed inevitable, the only logical outcome for the moment—and really, Draco didn't know if Potter even remembered it. If he was honest, Draco questioned if it ever really happened himself. It could have been a fever dream, or a hallucination from the highs of the club, a contorted memory of reality.

Now though, there were no other people around them, not even crops wavering in the wind, nothing to bear witness to the act—and in a way, it was by no means different from the first. Here in this field, much like in the club, they were nobodies. Potter wasn't the Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived, and Draco wasn't a Malfoy, a former Death Eater. In this field, they might not even have been Gryffindor and Slytherin. The First and Second Wizarding Wars could never have happened. Here, they were just two people. Two boys who could have been anybody—nobody—anything or nothing.

The air was brisk around them, crawling inside through his shirtsleeves, but Draco didn't care, instead he lost himself to Potter's hand coming up to clutch around his nape, kissing back.

Draco didn't like men, he wasn't a homosexual, wasn't queer—but this was different. They were nobodies, just skin touching and mouths kissing. It was okay because Potter could have been anyone, or so Draco told himself as he parted his lips for Potter's seeking tongue.

It was filthy, dirt pressing around them, muddying Draco's pressed shirt and ironed trousers, creasing them further. It was filthy, Potter's hands pulling Draco's hair, their saliva mixing and tongues licking into one another's mouths. It was vulgar and all kinds of indecent—and Draco couldn't get enough of it.

When it ended, Draco was breathless yet again, and Potter was quite a sight. Drunken eyes with heavy lids, breath coming out in small puffs of misty air, kiss-swollen lips, the polo neck pushed down to reveal a dusty rose flush blooming up his neck, on his cheekbones, at the tip of his ears. His hair was more of a mess than Draco had ever seen it before, the obsidian shock just an arranged tangle of knots standing on end. All of that, placed in a forlorn painting: sky a complicated dance of amber and pinks entwined, making his skin glow gold, the vast empty fields an omission of something long forgotten.

﹄ *** ﹃

The next time there was a knock on Draco's door, he didn't know what he expected, but Potter standing there—in a loose Muggle shirt with a knitted cardigan thrown lazily over his shoulders, khaki trousers hugging his legs, all beige and brown colours, his face looking distant, focus already foggy and obscure—was not it. Sure, Draco had suspected Potter might come back, but actually seeing him in the flesh was another thing entirely. Potter advanced, and Draco stumbled backwards into his flat, closing the door behind them.

It became clear to Draco what was to happen next as soon as Potter's eyes met his. Pine-green eyes pulled him in, until Draco felt like he couldn't tell North from South. He was lost in the forest of Potter's eyes, wondering if he'd ever see the sky above him again.

Potter's lips were on his before any words were exchanged, needy, as if this was all Potter had been thinking of lately—but Draco didn't dare linger on that possibility, afraid of what he might find if he probed too deeply. Their foreheads pressed together, Potter's hand firmly on Draco's nape like last time, pulling him down the few inches it took for their lips to align. Potter broke their kiss, gasping for air as if his free fall had happened just now and not five days ago.

"Is this okay?" Potter asked, hot breath against Draco's lips, looking up at him with eyes like dark treetops heaving in a storm.

"It's a bit too late to ask," Draco said, his voice barely a whisper.

"We can stop anytime."

And even though Draco had never been one to beg, he said: "Please, don't stop."

Potter was all over him, hands moving fast, unbuttoning his silk shirt—unusually effective considering the slippery material—and then his fingers were splayed on Draco's chest. His breath came even quicker, and Draco swore it smelled of booze, a lingering acidic trace in the air around them, but Draco didn't mind. He didn't care as long as Potter didn't stop.

It didn't matter that this was wrong—because it was, wrong. Potter was not just anybody, he was Harry Potter, and even though Draco had spent more time with him the last weeks than he had with anyone else in a long time, he didn't know him. Not to mention the immutable fact that Potter wasn't a child anymore, but a _man_, far removed from the female ideal Draco was supposed to desire, the androgynous build of childhood transmuting into bold features, the lines of Potter rougher and sharper, more insistent. But Draco _wanted_ this, felt like he _needed_ it. Needed Potter's lips against his, Potter's tongue sliding over his own, Potter's strong hands pressed between his shoulder blades and shoved into his hair, tracing his collarbones, moving over his chest, down his front and lingering on his hips.

Draco's hands tugged at Potter's shirt. Potter seemed to get the idea and raised his arms over his head, helping Draco to pull it off of him, providing a golden expanse of skin underneath Draco's fingers, bared for him to explore. They dropped their shirts in heaps on the floor, and Draco stumbled backwards into his flat, taking Potter with him, never really separating, lips still on each other's skin, hands still touching, searching.

They didn't get far, Potter fumbling with Draco's belt, buttons and zipper as they fell onto the sofa, and Draco wondered for a short moment if it would have been better to simply Vanish all of their clothes once and for all. But then he'd have to earn enough to buy new clothes, and he didn't really have the same kind of resources as he used to. Besides, there was something appealing about this unrefined disrobing, the way they worked hurriedly over each other, discovering detail after detail as more of their clothes hit the floor.

The fingers on Potter's left hand teased the waistband at Draco's hip, and Draco felt a wave of desire flood through his limbs and towards his groin, making his breath quicken and his hands tremble with anticipation.

He was seated on the sofa in only his pants, whilst Potter's legs were still clad in those caramel-coloured khakis, the seams straining as he straddled Draco, one leg on either side of him.

Potter broke their kiss, sitting back on Draco's thighs, locking eyes with him as he raised his right hand towards Draco's face. His fingers moved along Draco's skin, sliding against the curve of his jaw and down his neck to his collarbone, just like he had a few moments ago. This time was much less hurried, and Draco could feel his cock filling, turning impossibly harder at the sight, the touch. Potter's hand continued over his sternum, flicking a faint whisper over his right nipple as Potter's fingers carried on, never stopping, following the slope of Draco's ribcage down to his pelvis, only then pausing for a short moment. Draco swallowed thickly, giving a tense nod to grant Potter permission for the unspoken question.

Potter nudged at Draco's pants, and Draco arched his arse off the sofa the best he could with Potter leaning with his weight on his legs to help Potter pull them off and out of the way.

Draco hissed when finally, _finally_ Potter's fingers wrapped around the length of him, stroking his thumb along the side of Draco's cock up to the glans, pressing tentatively. Draco shut his eyes, the pleasure making it difficult to focus on anything other than Potter's hand around him.

Potter didn't say anything, instead his hand started to speed up, gaining confidence with each stroke, each pull, and Draco didn't feel the need to open his eyes again.

It scared him, what he might see if he did, if their eyes met again. Perhaps Potter would realise they were making a significant mistake and pull his hand away as if burned, shameful eyes looking down at Draco. Perhaps he would leave Draco like that, wrecked and humiliated. Draco didn't think he could stand it, so he kept his eyes shut, focusing on their breaths mingling, on the tight hold on his cock, the sweet drag of Potter's fingers and the rough pull as he pushed down towards the base, making Draco huff out incomprehensible sounds.

Draco could feel himself getting close, and it was only then he opened his eyes, suddenly afraid of what Potter might think if he was to come without even having touched Potter back. Potter's gaze, however, was not on Draco; it was elsewhere, not quite looking at Draco, but not really looking anywhere else either, and it stirred an emotion that felt much like relief, and yet the clear tug of disappointment was present in the corner of his mind. For the first time in a long time Draco didn't want to think, he wanted to feel, so Draco claimed his lips again, trying to force that distant look away.

Draco had never done anything like this before. Sure, he had pulled himself off every now and then, but that was different. It was merely the familiar turn of his hand around himself, finding relief as quickly as possible. These twists were different than his own, the fingers stronger than his, gentler than his, and the edge of surprise made him hotter than usual, skin prickling with sweat. He was so, so close already, and Draco blamed that on not having done this in a long time. Even though he had more time for it now—with a flat of his own available and too much free time on his hands—it was still a rare occurrence. It was a dirty act and only done for the convenience of the relaxing after-effects. It was all about the practicalities of it, never _this_, this pleasure Draco had never really felt before. This was the drumming of blood pumping through his body. Heat and movement and the harsh intake of air. Evidence of being _alive_.

Draco pushed his own hand against Potter's front, down over the bulge in his trousers, and a low groan escaped Potter's lips, sending another heated shiver down Draco's spine and making his head spin. It was almost too much, and so he fumbled with his hands to open Potter's trousers, snaking his hand down Potter's pants and pulling out his cock.

Draco couldn't see it, his eyes tightly shut as their tongues continued a dance similar to the ones he had seen so often at the clubs they had been to together. They moved in unison, almost as one entity.

Draco pulled, tried to move his hand in ways that had Potter moaning into his mouth, or at times even momentarily breaking their kiss for a sharp inhale. Draco knew he would come any moment now himself, the humming in his body growing stronger, more persistent, inevitable.

"I'm…" he said, not quite sure what more to say—and then he was coming, jaw clenching at the force of it, the world blacking out as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through him, come staining his abdomen and Potter's fingers as he continued to move them over Draco's cock through it all.

Draco was a gasping mess when he came to again, breath shuddering as he opened his eyes, apparently having broken the kiss when his orgasm hit him hard. He didn't dare look up and meet Potter's gaze. Instead, he tried to focus on his own task at hand, his fingers tightening around Potter's cock again, trying to remember which movements had made Potter writhe above him, groaning through his teeth.

He worked fast, trying to make it as sweet as he made it rough, and soon Potter followed, come spurting to join Draco's own on his abdomen, hot and cold blending together, and Draco didn't think he had ever experienced anything as crude as this before; it was raw, filthy. It was everything he had ever been taught not to do. It was so much like the antithesis to crisp serviettes folded in place, hands held neatly in one's lap, respectable glances and appropriate words exchanged over a dinner table, and absolutely no touching exchanged between those who weren't married. There wasn't even a barometer of propriety for same-sex affiliations, so unnatural were their childless unions considered—what else was sex for, but procreation? It certainly wasn't supposed to be this—rough pulling and obscene noises. This was wrong in all the ways that had Draco's heart beating quicker, feeling more alive than ever.

Draco let go of his grip around Potter when the other gave out a small whimper, oversensitivity coming over them as they came down from their climax.

Draco feared this moment. It always came for them, the crashing reality that followed the soaring highs.

It was only after Potter had left (after a few Cleaning Charms on them both before he grabbed his own clothes—still half naked—and Apparated away) that Draco realised that Potter hadn't commented on the scarred tissue covering his torso in long stripes, nor the faded blotch on his forearm.

﹄ *** ﹃

They never asked questions, and so Draco never asked why Potter came back, the question there on the tip of his tongue as he opened his door for Potter, letting him in, but not escaping. It was a dangerous road, and Draco would rather ignore the way it spiralled downwards than take a proper look at it.

He preferred Potter in a dimly lit room, now spread out on Draco's bed, the bed where he usually slept alone, where he had spent sleepless nights filled with worry, nightmares haunting him, not wanting to let go.

"Stop thinking," Potter said, and Draco did.

Thinking was too treacherous a path to walk on, it left him rattled, questioning everything neither of them dared to say out loud.

Draco would rather have Potter's hands on him instead, lost to his touch, swallowing moans as he trapped Potter under him, grinding his growing erection against Potter's own. He finally freed them both to wrap his hand around their shafts, and even though his hand was larger than Potter's, he struggled with the work. Potter took pity on him and added his own hand, fingers curling with Draco's around their cocks. It was harsh, raw, and not wet enough. The friction rough, almost hurting—but Draco didn't care. It was a lot like the burning alcohol they downed on all those nights out, cruel and scorching, but which left him dazed and enticed.

Draco would gladly choose this over thinking any minute. He'd pick the particular moment when they were both so absorbed in their own pleasure, chasing their highs, that their united tugging became sloppy, fast and incoherent. When at last they tipped over the edge, spilling all over themselves, Potter let out a muffled groan against the juncture where Draco's neck met his shoulder.

Blissed out, Draco rolled off Potter, wiping his hand against the duvet, head hitting the soft cushions underneath.

"Fuck," Draco said.

"Not yet," Potter replied, and a shiver ran down Draco's spine.

Even now, completely spent, the idea of fucking Potter stirred a low, dark, and animalistic part within him. It was awful, filthy, and yet Draco couldn't help but chase after it, right down a path opposite to all etiquette and decency. All his previous dreams and aspirations neglected, the image of a pretty pure-blood wife turned into dust by everything that screamed wrong, wrong, _wrong_. But then, when had Draco ever been _right_?

Draco always made all the wrong choices, he was always a disappointment—it seemed he wasn't capable of anything else.

﹄ *** ﹃

It happened again and again, and soon it was as common an occurrence as them going to clubs, if not even more regular.

Only when the faint pop of Potter's Disapparition was gone from the flat could Draco be allowed to fold in on himself. Every time was as if Potter had never been there, but then again, these liaisons left traces, come stains on Draco's sheets or on his skin, sometimes even marks that were left blushing for days. In a way, he felt dirtier than he ever had before, perhaps even more so than when the Dark Lord's snake had curled around his feet, sliding towards its latest victim. Draco couldn't help but wonder what his parents would think if they knew about his and Potter's dirty secret. Most times it scared him; the thought of their judging eyes seemed all too real in the dark of his room.

Draco wanted to hate it, wanted to hate Potter and his emerald eyes that were all too easy to get lost in, wanted to hate the way he marked Draco's body all over again—temporarily this time, but the lines were still a faint pink, still real; instead, Draco only had to look into his bathroom mirror, tracing the new lines with his fingertips, and it was such a shameful thing, the way all his blood seemed to rush south at the act, his cock betraying him. He did hate that, and yet he couldn't seem to muster up hate for Potter himself anymore.

It had been a long time since he had truly hated Potter. Draco didn't even know if he had hated Potter during eighth year, his absence making it hard for emotions such as hate to germinate and fully develop into something—anything. Instead the small sprouts were left dry, unfed, dying out like withering crops on an autumn field.

Draco didn't know what he felt towards Potter anymore. Had Potter always been like this? Seeking out the highs in life in order to feel alive? Acting as if death couldn't touch him, living as if he was above death itself, reckless in the way he handled himself—or was it something that had come later? But then, perhaps that was why Potter let himself be touched by Draco. Perhaps Draco was a reminder of death as well, and that was why Potter didn't care that it was indeed Draco's hand (even the one that bore the Mark) that roamed his body, that slid his fingers up and down Potter's length until he was begging for release—because perhaps that was all it was to him, a search for a high, a dance with death and a need for release.

Draco didn't cry when Potter left; he wasn't as weak as he once was. Instead he felt hollow, empty, and Merlin forbid, but he felt as though a part—a vital part—of him left with Potter, leaving only a shell behind. He wondered if that was what Potter felt too. That he was only truly alive when they were together.

_Together_.

A tricky word that had Draco's head spinning and his chest clenching. The image of a perfect family was still present on the inside of his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. He had yearned for that life, for the responsibility and the _honour_ of Father's approving eyes and Mother's encouraging smiles. To make them proud. It was an ugly thing, to dismiss the very idea that had been part of his life for as long as he could remember, but Draco wanted more. He didn't know what, but he wanted _more_, in a raw kind of way, and perhaps that was why the forbidden words slipped from his lips the next time Potter started moving beside him—obviously turning towards the edge of the bed to _go_, slip from Draco's fingers when the grasp around his neck was still loose enough (and it was probably for the best, because Draco was afraid that if it got too tight, he might break too):

"Stay."

It was such a simple word, and yet it hurt already when Draco belatedly realised it was out in the open. His eyes fell towards the dip in the duvet that Potter's back had left when he'd sat up. Draco couldn't really see Potter, his shape in the far corner of his peripheral view, but he could tell that Potter hadn't moved, his form freezing with that single word.

After a few agonising minutes (which in reality could only have been a few seconds) the reply came: "Says you—" and Draco didn't understand, but he didn't dare say anything in reply, too afraid of his own request— "who can't even call me Harry," and with that, Potter stood up, moving in a slow, sluggish, post-orgasm kind of way to pick up his discarded clothes from the floor and move out into the sitting room.

The usually unobtrusive pop of Apparition echoed loudly through the flat.

﹄ *** ﹃

But Draco couldn't call Potter _Harry_. The request tore at him, stripped him bare and ripped him open, taking his heart and squeezing it until Draco couldn't breathe. He couldn't call him Harry. Going by first names was something friends did, family, _loved ones_, and Draco and Potter weren't that. Draco didn't know what they were, but he didn't even know the man. The last time he'd seen Potter they had both still been boys caught up in a war too large for either of them, a war that required them to act as if they were men, grown and ready to fight. Draco didn't know about Potter, but he had not been ready for war.

Draco couldn't call him Harry because as far as Draco knew, Potter was still seeing Ginny Weasley.

He knew nothing about Potter. Nothing.

One had to earn a first name, and neither of them had.

﹄ *** ﹃

The knock was as familiar as the pop of Apparition, but this time Draco didn't want to have sex, and it wasn't like he and Potter were properly fucking anyway. They hadn't, in fact, fucked even once, and that was okay, that was safe. If they were only pulling each other off, it was practically the same as wanking—or so Draco kept telling himself when his hand was on his cock as water sprayed over him in the shower. It could just as well have been Potter's hand on him, Potter who twisted his fist and tugged, moving faster and faster until Draco came hard against the tiles, the water washing away all evidence. It could have been Potter, and so Draco told himself that pulling Potter's cock didn't mean anything. They didn't fuck, they just pulled. It was physical, the same motions, the same mechanism, all practicalities. It was fine.

Potter tried to take a step into Draco's flat but this time Draco was not budging. This time, he just wanted to get thoroughly pissed. Instead, Draco took hold of Potter's wrist, stepping outside into the crisp evening air and shutting the door after them, locking it with a flick of his wand.

Potter didn't question him, he never did, and Draco didn't have to explain, he only dragged Potter with him, ending up outside the first club they had gone to. It was a bit smaller than the other ones they had been to in the more recent past, but the music was just as loud, the people just as audacious, no shame in their bodies as they pressed together, collectively moving in a haphazard pattern, aimless in their intent, pulling a date for the night being. No promises, no commitments.

Tonight, the music wasn't pretty (but then, Draco wasn't sure if it ever was), the bass too loud, a war drum sounding through the place—and didn't that just fit them perfectly, a violent shudder of an electronic rhythm.

The evening turned to night as the hours passed, and it was just like all the other times they had been out, bathing in vivid colours—and yet, it also wasn't. Their bodies were closer than usual, not that they hadn't been close before, but Draco could feel that the tension was different, more heated and desperate—intimate. It scared and thrilled him all at once.

Potter's lips were close to his ear, whispering along with with the lyrics of a song Draco didn't know, touching his ear every other second, one hand firmly on Draco's hip. When the bass dropped, Draco could feel Potter closing in on him, pressing up against him, his evident hardness pressing into Draco's thigh from behind. Draco tried to look back at him, but Potter only let out a small laugh, voice slightly rough, a silent request for more as he slotted himself towards Draco again, this time with their fronts facing, plastered together.

Draco wanted this, his _body_ wanted this, but there was so much more at stake. He wasn't sure he was ready to disband everything he had ever held true. He knew that this wasn't normal—it couldn't be normal to feel the length of a man's most private parts press into his own personal space, feel the apparent _interest_ of another's cock as it rubbed against his clothes, rubbed into Draco's very skin. Draco couldn't change how his body reacted, but it was only physical. It didn't have to imply anything more than that. He could want Potter's body on his, to be skin against skin, and rub and moan but he wouldn't—couldn't accept Potter into his life more than he already had. Draco had to stay in control. Draco cleared his throat.

"I'm not gay," Draco said, because it felt important, to say it out loud, feeling his father's presence looming over him.

Draco had to try. For his mother and her kind eyes in a whirlwind of stern faces and harsher words; for his father, who even after the wars had ended, held himself as if the world was still under his command. He wanted to make them proud, as much as it pained him that he wanted the man in front of him. The man who made Draco's world crumble, over, and over again. Draco wasn't in control, never had been. At least Draco could admit it.

Potter didn't reply, and Draco wet his lower lip with his tongue and made the mistake of looking forward. Potter caught his gaze—trapping him.

Potter had a perplexed look on his face, and for a moment Draco thought he was going to step back, but instead Potter rolled his hips forward, rubbing his clothed cock in a rough grind against Draco's, and Draco couldn't repress the groan that escaped him. _And this isn't?_ He could hear the accusation thrown back at him, but Potter's lips didn't move, and the words only echoed inside Draco's own head.

"I won't do it again if you don't want it," is what Potter said instead, despite Draco's evident interest—as if Potter was more concerned about what Draco _thought_ instead of what his body _felt_. Draco swallowed, because that was a change he wasn't sure he was ready for.

He shouldn't want it—but he did, Merlin forgive him, he _did_. He couldn't ignore it, couldn't _hide_ it, not even from himself. All previous attempts were futile in the face of reality, of the faint hint of stubble grazing his jaw, of a square frame and eager hands. Family honour was forgotten and replaced, overtaken by a yearning he had never thought himself capable of. Draco didn't know what it was exactly, but the way Potter made his blood thrum like the wardrum around them was too strong, too persistent to avoid. It felt shameful, to want something so primitive, something so unnecessary, something that wouldn't lead to anything other than more tugging and pulling and groaning. And yet Draco _wanted_. Incapable of anything else, Draco leaned forward to catch Potter's lips with his own, despite only further proving himself weak by giving in to such basic desires, despite all the many years he had believed he _wanted_ what his parents wanted—for Draco to proudly take over after his father and bring them an heir to continue their precious blood line—and despite it being Potter in front of him—someone he had thought he had hated. Despite not being gay, he _wanted_ Potter. In the end, Draco always proved himself unable to live up to any expectations put on him.

Potter was a drug and Draco was an addict. Draco didn't know how to get rid of Potter, and worse, he didn't _want_ to get rid of him—perhaps once, but not anymore. Even with the promise of the future expected of him; of taking control of whatever was left of his family's assets; of honouring the memory of his parents, together and well, blooming under the influence they had in the wizarding world.

Another roll of Potter's hips against his and all thoughts of his parents left his mind for the time being, as he gave in to Potter's touches once more.

When they were both spent and left panting, Draco burrowed his face in the covers. He knew Potter was soon to leave.

_I don't want to be wrong again_, he thought, and at the sound of Potter's body turning towards him, a hand splayed over his shoulder blade, Draco realised the words had not echoed inside his own head but were already out in the room, spoken words impossible to take back.

"You're not wrong," Potter said and it was gentler than Draco deserved.

"I'm always wrong, this is all wrong," Draco continued, humiliation burning his insides.

There was a pause, and Draco was afraid Potter would just get up and leave, perhaps almost hoping that would be the case. Maybe it would be for the best.

"Does this feel wrong?"

And Draco had to admit that it didn't, tears tickling the inside of his eyelids, threatening to spill and expose him further.

"No, no it doesn't." Draco hated the way his voice cracked on the last word.

"Then it can't be wrong. You're only human after all."

﹄ *** ﹃

He couldn't bear Potter leaving another time, and Draco didn't want to dwell on why that was. Perhaps it was because he was lonely nowadays, with most of his old classmates in other cities, out of the country, doing other things, experiencing different places. Mother had suggested Draco leave too, but he wanted to stay in England. He was born here, this was his home, and Draco was tired of running away.

When Potter swung his legs over the edge of the bed again, Draco broke their unspoken rule; he asked a question, and not just a simple question like the ones they had shared before, but a personal one, one that went into lands he didn't know if he was allowed to step onto.

"Are you and Ginny still an item?"

"No."

"Why?"

Potter looked over his shoulder, down at Draco, and Draco felt small, uncertain.

"Everything ends," Potter said, the words harsh even though a small smile lingered on his lips. When he left that night, Draco felt as if he had broken not only the rule, but something vital within himself.

_Everything ends_, Potter had said, and what scared Draco was that it was true.

﹄ *** ﹃

The next time felt inevitable at this point, a thing which Draco wanted to say no to, and at the same time, he couldn't imagine actually saying the word. Perhaps that was why he kept letting Potter inside his flat—inside his life—looking disheveled and smelling of booze as he stood on Draco's threshold.

That was when Draco realised it. The truth dawned on him and he knew, he just _knew_.

Draco loved Potter.

It was a daunting thought, and it left him bare, open and vulnerable, without even having said the words out loud. Draco didn't know when it had crept up on him, but it was here now, and he couldn't shake it off. It didn't matter that it was everything he wasn't supposed to want, that he would disappoint his parents—he always did anyway. It didn't matter that he didn't know Potter; that he didn't know _things_ about Potter; how he liked his breakfast—if he even ate breakfast; what he liked to do when he wasn't clubbing, drinking, or pulling; it didn't matter because Draco realised that he knew Potter in another way, perhaps a deeper way. He realised that he had known Potter for quite some time now. Draco knew what made him tick; he knew how to turn Potter's distant look into a definite, more present state; he knew how to make the corner of Potter's lips tug into a smile, clearing up the darkness that seemed to silently follow him around; knew how to touch Potter until he was a hot mess, incapable of forming any words, only animalistic noises escaping his throat from deep within. Draco knew another side of Potter, the side he didn't share with anyone. Draco saw it when Potter thought he wasn't looking, how hard he tried not to worry Draco. He saw the way Potter didn't ask any questions, perhaps because he couldn't stand answering any himself. Draco didn't know what this made him, what it might eventually make _them_, but the feeling tugging at his core was consistent, a constant, much like Potter's presence in his life.

Potter was falling, and Draco wanted to save him, having let go too, falling with him.  
Love was tricky, a subject too delicate for a Malfoy. It was feeble, ambiguous and complicated. It got messy and ugly, and it was easier to do without it.

"Let me touch you," Draco said, because it was easier, less complex, more temporary.

The feelings were unwelcome, because Draco didn't know what he would do if Potter stopped coming to his door, the two short knocks now a familiar sound that he had not only got used to, but had grown dependent on—and that was perhaps even trickier. Draco thought he was done with a complicated life. He left all that behind when he got himself his own flat. He could start fresh, a new place to call home with no lingering memories.

Potter nodded in reply as he closed the door behind him, and Draco crashed their lips together, trying to convey everything he didn't know how to put into words into his touches. He pressed closed-mouthed kisses along Potter's lips, to the corner and down his jaw, down the expanse of his neck, past the mole on Potter's left side, and then back up to his mouth again. Draco licked at Potter's bottom lip, taking it carefully between his teeth, pulling slightly, until Potter let out a low moan, breath hot against Draco's mouth.

Potter opened up beneath him, melting into his touch and moulding his body to Draco's. He unbuttoned Draco's shirt to run his hand along and around Draco's sides to pull him closer still—but Draco had other plans in mind, breaking the kiss to slide down Potter's front, down onto his knees. He paused with his hands on Potter's belt, lifting his gaze only to get lost in Potter's eyes again.

"Touch me," Potter said, voice warm and husky.

And so Draco did, pulling out Potter's hot prick, filling in his hands.

Draco had never done anything like this before. He didn't know if Potter had had any experience with it, but perhaps that didn't matter. Draco wanted this, wanted to nuzzle his face against wiry hair to feel Potter hardening against his nose, wanted to smell him, _taste_ him.

Draco took a tentative lick up Potter's length, hot burning skin underneath his tongue, and it made Draco's own cock fill out in his trousers. He took hold of the base and directed the head towards his lips, tongue darting out to lick at the tip, and Draco heard Potter moaning above him.

It was dirty, filthy and animalistic in a way Draco had never let himself be outside of sex with Potter, everything he had grown up to despise and condemn. But it was easier, more tangible, to continue licking and sucking, than to form the words trapped in his breast, so he put all he could muster into the task at hand. He couldn't tell Potter he loved him, not yet, but Draco could touch him; he was allowed to touch him. Draco could lick at Potter's cock, growing thicker and thicker in Draco's hand, press it past his lips and suck it into his mouth. He almost gagged and instead tried to focus on the tip with his mouth and the base with his hand. His fist moved up and down as he swirled his tongue around the head, moaning with his mouth full of cock, because Draco couldn't get enough. It was a tricky path to walk, but he was already lost in an endless forest—if he was to never find his way out again, so be it.

Draco's trousers strained at his groin, his erection pushing at the seams, but Draco brushed his need aside, putting all his attention towards Potter, who now had his hand tangled in Draco's hair the way they both seemed to like it, making a mess out of Draco's careful charm work from earlier that morning.

"Fuck me," Potter moaned above him, and Draco's eyes flicked to his, trying to determine if Potter meant it. Their eyes met, and Draco knew that Potter would let him if Draco wanted to.

Draco did want it, Merlin he _wanted_, but the feeling of _wrong_ still tugged at him—it was too early.

Draco could deal with this, all cocks and charging full-on towards release. He didn't know if he could deal with something more, something that forced them to confront their feelings, to ask the questions they'd been ignoring for so long.

Even now, on his knees, his mouth filled to the brim, he felt wrong—and yet he wanted and craved it. Draco was scared of what it would feel like to have Potter underneath him, legs spread out for him, the two of them connected even more deeply than when he was inside Draco's mouth. It was a slippery slope. Draco already knew he loved him—but what about Potter? Did he love Draco back? Draco didn't know. He wasn't sure he was ready to know, ready to _ask_—and so it was easier to simply move his head faster, lips tightening around Potter as he tensed underneath him.

"Fuck, I'm going to—" Potter said, tugging at Draco's hair to make him pull off, but Draco didn't. Instead he sucked harder, moving even faster, moaning around him until Potter tipped over the edge.

﹄ *** ﹃

Potter hadn't asked Draco to fly with him again. And then, suddenly, he did, standing on Draco's doorstep once again. Draco was wary.

"I'm different," Potter said. "You've taught me how to fly."

_Rubbish_, Draco thought.

He hadn't. Draco had only caught him, just a few seconds before it would have been too late.

Potter handed him the Firebolt Supreme, the one Draco had flown before. It had somehow managed to stay intact despite the crash. Draco knew Potter's broom had been beyond saving. He didn't have to ask what Potter would be flying, as he held it up himself, a Cleansweep of some sort.

"Got it secondhand," Potter said, eyes intent on Draco when he didn't reply. Once he might have commented on it, but things were different now.

Perhaps it was true that Draco had trusted Potter for a long time now, and perhaps that was why he followed him, yet again.

When the field came into view Potter let go of Draco's hand to search for something in his pocket. When he found what he was looking for, he brought his hand up, pushing the item unceremoniously into Draco's palm.

Draco knew that shape, the weight of it, before he looked down. The Golden Snitch in Draco's hand looked worn out. Something old and treasured.

"I'm not sure," Draco said.

"I won't force you."

"I know."

"One game."

Just the _one_.

Draco worried his bottom lip with his teeth, but when he opened his mouth to reply, he wasn't able to say anything else but: "Okay."

Draco knew they couldn't really play with just the two of them, not a real game, but Potter seemed to have thought about that as well, bringing the only ball that had ever counted for the two of them.

They ended up flying anyway, racing for all they were worth, and even though Draco was mounted on a better model, he could tell Potter was still the better flyer, even all these years later. Draco pushed the thought aside, letting himself live in the moment, in the race and the search for the small golden ball, listening for the buzzing of its thin wings, almost too quick for the eye to see.

The world passed beneath them, only the wind and the chase existed. Draco was so close to catching it, just a bit faster and he'd be able to close his hand around it.

Somehow it came as a surprise when he did, in fact, close his fingers around the cold metal, triumph humming through his body as he slowed down. Draco turned around, eyes bright as he looked back at Potter, and Potter, too, was smiling at him.

Draco didn't mention that he had seen the way Potter had slowed down when Draco had got closer to the Snitch, and neither did Potter.

After the chase they lay down on a patch of brittle grass, slowly decaying underneath their tired limbs.

Perhaps Draco didn't need the crumbled image of a married future to a perfect pure-blood wife like he had thought for so long. It was an idea born before the war had been upon them. It was a concept from a childhood he could otherwise barely remember, one that no longer seemed to fit the man he had become. Perhaps Draco _was_ gay. He didn't know. He only knew that however impossible it was, he had fallen for the man breathing heavily beside him, still catching his breath. Draco would have to face the reality of what that meant eventually, but perhaps he'd be okay. Perhaps they could do it, _together_.

Potter was beautiful, dark curls framing his face, glasses slightly askew as he lay on the grass without a care in the world. He didn't have a particularly fine understanding of style, but as he looked back at Draco, propping himself up on his elbow, Draco didn't think he had seen anyone as beautiful as Potter before. He was a mess, but so was Draco. Maybe they made a better fit than most.

Perhaps it didn't matter if Draco was gay. The turmoil it would create in his life might fit him perfectly. Nothing for Draco Malfoy had ever been easy, and perhaps it was time to reevaluate his childhood dreams and determine what he actually wanted for himself. Perhaps it wouldn't be the same as what he'd always been told his future should hold, but nothing ever stayed the same.

"Harry," Draco said, and somehow that _was_ easy.

A smile broke out on Harry's face, glowing warmer than the bronze light shining across them, the sun low on the horizon.

"Draco," he replied.

It sounded simple, uncomplicated, his name slipping from Harry's lips so effortlessly.

Draco wondered if Harry would stop drinking, if Draco could start telling him no and ask him to stay with Draco in his flat instead. Perhaps doing nothing, not dancing drunkenly in clubs or wanking each other into oblivion, but staying present, alive, without the need for a high.

Draco wanted their mutual need for the reckless to disappear.

He wanted to say, _let me love you_, but he knew it was too soon. But perhaps it could be different, eventually. Perhaps one day the words could slip from his lips as easily as Harry's name had. Perhaps it wouldn't always have to be so complicated.

"Stay," Draco said instead, an echo of the words he'd said some time ago now. It was a simple request, and even now he didn't know if he was asking for just a prolonged moment under the descending sun or something more.

Harry held out his hand, and Draco didn't know what to do.

"The Snitch," Harry said.

Draco handed it over, puzzled as Harry pressed his lips against the metal. As he broke the closed-mouthed kiss, he looked at it, seeming lost in thought before he caught himself drifting and handed the Snitch back to Draco.

Draco took it, carefully turning it over in his palm. He saw engravings that hadn't been there before.

_I open at the close_, it said, and Draco couldn't help but think that it had some greater meaning he didn't understand, something that clearly was important to Harry.

"I know you're afraid of endings, perhaps that's why you're afraid of beginnings too, perhaps that's why you never ask questions, afraid of the answers," Draco said, his gaze back on Harry. He saw the worry that swept over Harry, the way he visibly swallowed, eyebrows furrowing slightly and tongue darting out to wet the corner of his lips. "I know you act as if you don't care, I know you treat your own life as if it's insignificant, worthless."

"I can learn to not need the thrill anymore."

"What?"

"To feel alive…" Harry said, and Draco wanted to believe him. "I'm afraid it's true, what you said. That you know me better than I'd like to acknowledge. I guess that's why I haven't spoken much, assuming it would have been easier to keep things unsaid." Harry's eyes were cast down, index finger slowly making circles in the dirt, as if bringing the end to the beginning would make it easier. "I know I've not handled things very well. Might have got a bit out of hand at times." He cracked a shy laugh towards the ground, and Draco wanted to reach out to him, unsure how to act when they weren't all sharp edges and rough movements—the things he had come to know, the things he knew how to handle with Harry. Instead, he listened as Harry continued, "I guess I only realised I wasn't really living until you happened upon me. I was ready to give up, at that point, but…" Harry bit his lip as he met Draco's gaze with his. "You showed me that it was possible to _feel_ again. I want to. Feel alive. I want to be able to feel it without the thrill seeking, and I was hoping we might learn it together?" And even though his words were heavy, it felt as if it might have been the most important conversation they had ever exchanged; Harry looked so mundane, resting on the ground—and perhaps he _could_ learn. Perhaps they both could.

Neither of them asked any questions, but perhaps they didn't need to. Perhaps it would come to them eventually anyway. Draco knew they still had a long way to go for that to be true, but if Harry was willing to work on it, if he _wanted_ to change, then that was something. That was a beginning in itself.

"Harry," Draco said, knowing they both were thinking of the last time they had been here on these fields, with wind-blown hair and sunkissed skin.

Draco leaned closer to Harry, their lips inches apart as he looked into Harry's eyes. He wasn't afraid of getting lost in them anymore; Harry would guide him back out again if he lost his way, his fingers laced with Draco's as Harry led him out of the forest and back into fields like these. A place where they could both stand with their feet on the ground, catching their breaths as they learned to breathe evenly again. Maybe Harry's eyes didn't resemble the Forbidden Forest at all. Maybe they were more like the hopeful sprouts in spring, longing for the warmth of the sun so that they could grow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for viewing! You can show your appreciation for the artist in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


End file.
